


Two sides to every story

by AuntyAgonee



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Angels in closets, Gen, Mace is the most versatile weapon, copious swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:32:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuntyAgonee/pseuds/AuntyAgonee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean is accosted by a small demon toting a can of mace.</p><p>In which Nico is accosted by a large man toting a shot gun full of rock salt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two sides to every story

**Author's Note:**

> My fandoms do this sometimes.  
> I'll be sitting on Tumblr, minding my own business then all of a sudden one of them sidles up to me and goes "You know what a great way to waste your time is? Writing a cross-over oneshot."  
> And so it was.

(New York city- some shitty budget motel room)

Sam Winchester has less than two seconds to close down the window on his laptop with questionable moral quality before his brother bursts into the hotel room. As he snaps the lid shut, he marvels at the noise Dean is making, something that reminds him of the time he was driving the Impala with one hand and fighting a vampire off Dean in the backseat with the other and ended up hitting a gigantic moose. The noise that moose made as it, miraculously for him, sprang off the side of the car and was launched into the dark of the night was of pure animal shock and outrage.  
Dean is making that noise.  
The door bangs open. In stumbles Dean, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes which are a raging red. His eyes stream and his nose is running too despite his best efforts to staunch it.  
“Sammy!” he roars “Towel!”  
Thrown back to his child hood years when Dean bellowed for a towel from the shower every time shampoo got in his eyes, Sam rushes to the bathroom and returns a moment later with a rough motel towel he presses to Dean’s raw face.  
“What the hell, man?” is all he can think to say.  
Dean hoot in agony “Some shitty demon maced me!”  
Sam back-steps to his bed and shoves the laptop under a pillow “Like…with pepper spray?”  
Stumbling into the bathroom, Dean runs the tap and sticks his head under it face-up, trying to scrub the burning traces of the liquid from his eyes.  
“Bitch!” he shouts, addressing the sink “Oh fuck fuck fuck this hurts so fucking much! I can’t do it! Friggin’- call the friggin’ angel! I need some healing here!”  
“Mace,” repeats Sam “Are you sure it was a demon?”  
“Fuck yeah I’m sure it was a demon! I’ve been hunting them since I was tiny! This guy had demon written all over his face!”  
Sam shrugs “I’m just…why would…but if it was a demon, why did it spray you with mace instead of trying to rip your head off?”  
Dean straightens up and blinks painfully a couple of times. He scrubs his face clean of tears and snot with some toilet paper “Cas, you fucking asshole! Help me! I’m in pain!”  
“Can you describe the demon to me?” Sam rolls onto his stomach and drags a shoebox out from under his bed, where they keep John’s hunting journal when spending the night in motels “Maybe I can find something about mace-ing demons in here.”  
Mopping his eyes, Dean collapses into a chair so heavily Sam thinks it might break under his weight “I don’t know. He looked really wrong. He had black eyes, but not all black. But really really black. His skin was pale. His hair was black. He was short and a teenager and a murderer. What more do you want from me?”  
“Did you catch him running away from a crime scene?” there have been several in this city, all of them young male models killed in high-end apartments.  
Sam imagined he’d be u against some kind of succubus or a siren, which would be a whole lot worse considering the last time he and Dean went up against a siren they almost shot each other in the face. He leafs through the book for a few unproductive moments while Dean abuses Cas for his absence in his time of need.  
“Dean,” he closes the book “Are you sure you just didn’t attack a creepy, normal kid?”  
Dean jabs a finger in the air “I mistake a Goth for a vampire ONCE (pointing at him with the single finger to emphasize the point) and you won’t get off my case for it.”  
Sam shrugs “You nearly staked a girl once. Sounds like you almost popped a cap in the innocent ass of teen with a late curfew. Hunters can make mistakes. Even you, Dean, and it sounds like you were just lucky the kid had a can of mace and a good head on his shoulders.”  
Dean’s face grows grim, which would be more much dramatic if his face weren’t swollen up like he is having a life-threatening allergic reaction “He was not innocent. It takes a murderer to know a murderer, alright? That kid saw some shit.”  
“So? He was probably homeless. Homeless kids knife people all the time, for drugs and money and self-defence and all that normal stuff.”  
Shaking his head, Dean tosses the mace-contaminated towel away and gets a new one “The ghost remote thing went nuts when I ran it over him.”  
Sam blinks “Were you just stopping random people and checking them for EMP activity.”  
“I said I was checking radiation levels.”  
“Yeah, if some rough looking guy came up to me and tried to check me for radiation, I would mace him without a second thought.”  
There is a gust of wind and a faint, fading note of heavenly music. The closet doors jump.  
“Hello?”  
The doors rattle.  
Dean throws both of the towels at the closet doors “I’m fine now! Where were you when I was stumbling blind all over the streets of a metropolis, huh?”  
Cas tries opening the doors of the closet he has materialised inside again, but to no avail, even with all of his heavenly wisdom and angel-mojo behind him “Consulting the proper authorities. I haven’t seen a child like the one who defended himself from your attentions in eons…about sixty years, actually.”  
“But angels have little to no concept of time, right?” suggests Sam.  
“Yes, that’s right. Can somebody let me out?”  
Pulling a sour face, Dean pushes a chair in front of the closet “No. If you come late to the party, you get bad seating.”  
“It was an anti-Christ,” offers Cas casually “None like those you have encountered before, however, so I’d recommend forgetting you ever saw him at all.”  
“Is that an order?” says Dean stiffly.  
Cas pauses “Call it a firm suggestion. I will say that you’re likely to be beheaded if you do try tracking the half-demon down.” the closet doors rattle hopefully “Well if my services are not required here I would like to get back to Heaven.”

(Long Island- the porch of the Big House)

Nico literally drops out of the shadows crawling up the walls.  
That in itself is pretty damn normal, so Annabeth doesn’t so much as blink. She turns the page of her notebook and scribbles and re-scribbles a jotting in the margin of a blueprint.  
“Where were you?” she asks “It’s late.”  
Nico stands up. He looks down at himself as if he cannot quite believe he is one piece and lowers himself into the rocking chair beside Annabeth. At this point, she starts to worry. His snow-white complexion is flushed in shock and his breaths are coming quickly, greedily, so he has either been running recently or shadow-travelled his way out of a bad situation.  
“There was this guy,” he starts slowly, incredulously “Almost 6 feet tall. He waved this…remote control, Taser thing with antennae over me, saying he was checking the background radiation levels. The thing lights up and suddenly he has a shotgun on me.”  
He rolls up a torn sleeve and shows her a red, bleeding welt. Annabeth’s heart skips a beat.  
She tugs a flask of emergency nectar out of her back pocket that she is never parted from and dabs a little bit on his cut. It zips itself shut. She pours some of her ice water on the cut as it seals and washes the blood away.  
“He shot you?” she repeats angrily “Why the fuck did he shoot at you?”  
Nico shrugs “The hell if I know. The cartridge only clipped my arm. It hit the wall and exploded and it was full of…fucking rock salt.”  
She gives him a frank look “Are you shitting me?”  
He shakes his head “Rock salt. Some guy waltzed up to me and shot me with rock salt, so I double-tapped him with mace.”  
The mace is a recent precaution.  
Percy, Nico and Reyna have recently discovered they have an unfortunate magnetism that attracts the craziest, most raving, drug-crazed and violent brand of street people. Leo was getting sick of hearing stories of over-affectionate hobos trying to share Reyna’s personal space at bus-stops and angry, inebriated skin-heads following Percy around for blocks demanding to know how white his father was and tweekers trying to hug Nico, so he made them all carry mace, revealing that he had done so himself since he was nought but a lad of eight. The encounters it has helped him escape from are hair-raising to say the least.  
The counter-measure against creeps is just a stop-gap of course, since any one of the three could snap a man’s spine over their knee if they wanted to. However, it has been so effective Chiron is going to standardize it as a part of the half-blood survival kit so they have a choice between beating the human aggressors they are sure to meet on quests, or the good old ‘spray-and-nut’ combo that has been saving the skins of inner-city women everywhere since the miracle chemical’s invention.  
“What happened after that?” she asks, her heart in her throat.  
He shrugs, his face blank “I just left. Walked a few streets wondering why I got shot with rock salt, then I came back here…now I’m on the porch and still wondering why he shot me with rock salt.”  
Annabeth pats him on the shoulder “There are some real psychos out there.”  
The younger demigod shivers “He was a psycho, but he was our kind of physco. You know how you can kind of tell when someone else has seen battle like you have?”  
Annabeth nods. Only last week at a café, a man in uniform asked her where she had toured.  
“He was a solider.” Nico stares out across the darkening camp “A raving, rage-drunk lunatic, but mostly a solider.”  
“Scary. Are you gonna be alright to sleep on your own tonight?”  
He gives her a withering glare “What do you think I’m going to say?”  
She smiles at him playfully “Just checking, junior, just checking.”  
They let a few moments pass in silent.  
Then Nico can no longer contain his indignation “Who the fuck alters shotgun cartridges with the explicit purpose of shooting lone teenagers with rock salt anyway? What a class A-asshole!”


End file.
